


The Remedy is the Experience

by outlivethestars



Series: The Remedy is the Experience [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-30 18:13:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outlivethestars/pseuds/outlivethestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Due to repeated disputes, John and Sherlock have been forced into couples' counseling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost of my story, because I accidentally deleted it. Whoops.  
> Just an idea that came to me a few weeks ago. As a side-note, John and Sherlock are not a couple at this point of time. In the story, I mean. They're simply flatmates and friends.

               Of course there were arguments between Sherlock and I. We were flatmates and best friends, even though I can’t imagine a man more different from me than he is. Usually we got along rather smoothly, but we did have our rows. The thing about our rows, however, is that they don’t even  _start_ out small. There isn’t simply a cruel sentence or a slammed door – there’s a world war, battalions of anger and lines being drawn. One time, I swear to God, he locked the bathroom door and refused to let me use the toilet in our flat for three days straight (I retaliated by replacing all of his nicotine patches with Elastoplasts). This fight was worse.

                Coming from me, maybe this description doesn’t do our fight justice. I said that we never had small arguments, but even by our standards this was the worst. It was worse than no bathroom, worse than days of stony silence, worse than a whole shitload of things that Sherlock puts me through. Worse than everything I put him through too. If the typical argument is a domestic dispute, than this was Flat War I. It got to the point that others stepped in and put a stop to it… which, I suppose, is how we got here.  
  


******************

                “No, Sherlock, you can’t just leave bodies in the bloody bathtub, I don’t care what your experiment is! It’s my tub too, and—” I stop my rant when I notice that Sherlock’s glare is practically piercing through me, and it seems like that’s his intent. The therapist, Ms Gatiss, looks like she’s just realised this isn’t going to be an easy job. She must not have expected us to have this sort of problem. No one really goes to therapy of their own volition, of course, but two men having a row about corpses? That’s got to be a new one. I run a hand down my face and let out a sigh.

                Sherlock jumps in as soon as he can tell I’m done. “Look, this isn’t my fault. I told him there would be experiments in our flat. John’s only blaming me because he won’t accept that I did absolutely nothing wrong, and any problems between us are his fault.” He crossed his arms, smug.

                “As fucking if!” I choke out a sarcastic laugh. “How is this not your fault, Sherlock? You leave bodies everywhere, get me kidnapped by your enemies, interrupt every single one of my dates, and you never buy the milk for my tea! And you’re saying it’s all on me, is it? Ha!”

                At this point, Ms Gatiss looks absolutely frightened. She opens up the case file and looks into it for a couple of minutes. Sherlock and I glare at each other while she reads. Tension has filled the room when she finally glances up and swallows nervously. “Uh, I can t-tell that we’ve got some, er, issues to work through. It says here, that you’ve been ‘arguing at work for months on end’, and the men who requested you come in were ‘both aggravated and somewhat terrified’. Sherlock, your brother has specifically told me that I’m to be the one to, ah, sort this out. When did -"

                Whatever the therapist wants to say is lost as Sherlock and I resume arguing. Our voices rise louder and louder in volume, as if the fight could be won simply by speaking the loudest. I filled my side with emotion, while Sherlock’s replies dripped with condescension.

                “John, you are being ridiculous -”

                “Stop acting like you’re the smartest man on the bloody planet, Sherlock. I’m sick of you acting like I know nothing!”

                “I  _am_  the ‘smartest man on this bloody planet’, John, especially compared to you. You're almost worse than Anderson.”

                “That’s too far. I am sick. Of. Dealing. With. You. I do everything for you, do you not realise that?!”

                “Stop being so dramatic, John.  This is therapy, not daytime television.”

                “ _Sherlock you fucking_  -” __

“ENOUGH!” Ms Gatiss is red in the face, having just screamed at the top of her lungs in order to overpower us. It reminds me a bit of primary school, to be honest, as if Sherlock and I had both wanted to play with a toy and the teacher eventually had to yell at us in order for us to calm down. It definitely has that effect, because we both flush from embarrassment as we turn to face her. She fixes her hair, messes with the file a little bit—out of nervousness, I’m guessing, or maybe just emotion-—and then looks up at us.

             “John, Sherlock, obviously there are some problems between you two that we have to deal with. When Mycroft and Greg requested that I talk to you, I never imagined something so … histrionic. All of the emotions here are good to have, but maybe we could try this again, in a more calm fashion? Maybe talk, one at a time, so that you can hear each other’s sides of the story. Who’d like to speak first?”

                Her nervous speech was bothering Sherlock, judging by the look he was giving her: all annoyance, with a hint of general loathing. It wasn’t her fault, of course, he just always considered himself more intelligent than everyone around, even professionals. I watch him for a minute to be sure he had no plans to go first, and then I raise my hand. “I’ll go, Miss,” It was always best to be polite, even when the man next to me makes me want to break the sofa into pieces.

                Ms Gatiss was obviously relieved to have at least one mature person in the room. Just as I was preparing to clearly and concisely explain everything I disliked about Sherlock Holmes, she looks at the clock placed above my head. With a quick smile, Ms Gatiss stands up to let us out. “I’m sorry, but that’s all the time that we have for today. If you don’t mind, I’ve got another patient who I must see immediately, so you have to leave rather quickly. I’ll call to schedule our next appointment.”

                For some reason, Sherlock (who had been completely rude throughout the entire session) is monumentally upset at having to leave. He stands without a word, and—as calm as humanly possible—thrusts his arm out to push the table onto its side. Photographs, books, and papers fell across the floor as he stalked out. I apologised to Ms Gatiss, helped her clean the mess, and then followed Sherlock out.  _Perhaps he likes the attention_ , I muse.  _He is rather childish, after all._ All the same, I refused to indulge him, so I walked right past him and took a taxi back to Baker Street, alone.


	2. The Comedy Is That It's Serious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Couple's therapy is not an easy thing for Sherlock and John - not by a long shot. It's their second session and they're ready to kill each other. Not that they weren't before, but still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the POV is going to rotate, but mainly between John and Sherlock. This chapter is from Ms Gatiss's point of view - I simply wanted to try it from her perspective.

It's 11.45 in the morning, and I'm already wishing the day was over. Not that it's particularly unusual for me, but I can typically last at least until 3 in the afternoon. Of course, that's when I don't have to suffer through the absolute worst 50 minutes I could imagine. Sherlock Holmes is supposed to be a genius, but as far as I can tell he's simply an arse - his friend, John, seems decent enough though. Raised his hand to speak, which was sort of cute. Still, it's an awful session. I had put off scheduling it for as long as I could, but then DI Lestrade had phoned in. And then Mycroft Holmes (practically the embodiment of the British government, as if that's not threatening at all) rang. And then Lestrade had called just a few minutes ago, to make sure that Sherlock and John were coming in. 

"Look, Greg, I'm flattered that you and, er, Mycroft, is it? I'm flattered that you chose me to be in charge of this ... case, but really, I'm not the right person for it. There's loads of blokes who'd be much better at it than I am. They barely listen to me; Sherlock doesn't treat me as a professional at all! H-he broke my table, threw all of my things on the ground like it was nothing."

"Well, Ms Gatiss, to him it most likely  _was_  nothing." I heard Lestrade clear his throat. "I hate to push this onto you, I really do, but Mycroft was adamant about you being their counselor. He says that you're the most promising therapist he could find..." The rest of his sentence hung in the air,  _the most promising one, at least, that was mental enough to agree._  

"It would help if I had a clue why they were even fighting. They got on well enough before, yes? Well, what changed?"

"There's no one thing that set them off, Miss. They'd get on fine until they didn't, to be quite honest. Lately it was simple misunderstandings, the sort of row you'd expect someone to have with their partner. You know, who'd do the shopping, that sort of thing. I really don't know what changed. Anyway, I'd love to be of more help, but there are crimes in this town and someone ought to try stopping them. Have a good day, Ms Gatiss."

"Uh, yes. Cheers. Good day to you too, Detective Inspector." The line goes dead, signaling that he's hung up. Before I'm able to escape the building with my sanity--or at the very least, my life--the secretary enters my room to tell me that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have arrived. 

 

***                        ***                        ***                       ***                       ***                       ***                        ***

 

John looked, for the most part, the same as he had during our last meeting: a well-worn jumper, dark denim pants, and most importantly, a look of complete exasperation on his face.  _Apparently I'm not the only one who isn't looking forward to this_ , I find myself thinking. I'm not supposed to be so judgmental about my patients, but there's something about Sherlock that irritates me. Most likely the fact that he broke several of my possessions. He also looks much like before, with tight-fitting clothes and a scarf, every detail of his outfit colour-coordinated with the rest. The main difference between then and now is that they both look fairly disheveled, almost as if they'd had a scuffle in my waiting room. 

"Hello, Mr Watson and Mr Holmes. How have you, er, been?" I really don't want to mention their appearance, but it's very distracting. "Did you. Are you two alright?"

John rubbed his thumb across his forehead, apparently stressed. He looked at Sherlock for a moment and then fell onto the sofa, proclaiming, "I am absolutely finished, Ms Gatiss. Done. Fin. End of script, fade to black, roll credits,  _done_. If I have to spend another day in a flat with this man-" he hooks a thumb aggressively towards Sherlock "-I will off at least one of us before nightfall." Sherlock rolls his eyes and perches on the farthest cushion from John. After daintily rearranging his coat, he mutters, "John, we aren't auditioning for a high school play. Please at least pretend that you're a mature adult."

A sound of disbelief and shock escapes John's lips. "Pretend that  _I'm_  a mature adult? Really?" He turns to me, as if I'm the mediator. Which I suppose I am, but right now I wish I was only the audience of this strange, warped scene. Unfortunately, I have a more integral role than that, so I try to intervene.

"Sherlock, you clearly have an issue with John. Could you tell me what it is?" I'm trying my best to be professional, and I cover my distaste with a shield of kindness. Either he sees through it or is blinded by his anger towards John, because he spits back to me, "Not. Possible. Just leave me alone,  _miss_. My problems are far more complex than you could ever solve; you can go ahead and return to your boring life now."

Well. That was hardly kind. Two can play at that game, though, so I retaliate with, "If I'm such a hopeless failure, then why did you bother coming down to my office in the first place? A mind so 'great' as yours must have other follies to attend to, and I sure as hell don't enjoy dealing with you."  

"John forced me to come here. I take no pleasure in acknowledging your existence, believe me."

I give up on following through with this conversation; the only possible result is for one of us to throw a punch, and I have no immediate plans for recieving an ASBO. Sherlock can apparently tell when someone backs down, and he smirks before turning his attention to his mobile. Before I can come up with a reasonable conversation to pursue with John, he breaks the silence.

"I'm moving out. That's it. I'm out. I am done with your disrespect, with your dramatics, with you. As soon as we return to the flat, I'm leaving." There's so much fire in this outburst, that it actually shocks Sherlock: his face goes blank for the first time since I've met him. From what I've heard about the man, he's never caught completely off-guard, except for now.

"No." Sherlock doesn't even seem to have consciously spoken, it falls out of his mouth as if by accident. It's a quiet denial, with no real faith behind it. I realise that this brilliant, rude, ridiculous man is genuinely scared that John will leave. John had looked up to Sherlock once he heard a response, and his face was painted with hues of anger, irritation, and--most of all--a deep sadness, the sort that eats at a person until they turn a pale gray from the inside out.

John's eyes widen, and then he blinks rapidly for several seconds. Then he takes a few deep breaths, like he needs to steady his resolve. Unfortunately, even I can watch it crumble as he puts his head in his hands and asks, "What else can I do, Sherlock?" No reply comes from Holmes, and I have nothing to add either. This is far more than I'd expected to see. Almost everyone who enters my office cries at some point, but this was the first time I actually watched pain land on a man's face and stay there. It seemed familiar to him, and I couldn't wait to explore John and see the reasons. 

After what seemed to be the longest ten minutes I ever experienced, I speak out. "John, Sherlock, I think we should end here for now. And perhaps the best thing for us to do right now would be to have you come in separately as well as for couples' counseling. One-on-one time should help me understand your situation much more. I'll call tomorrow so that we can find the most convenient times for both of you." I stand to open the door, almost afraid to crack the gentle tension that connects all three of us. Sherlock rises first, dusting his coat and holding my gaze. For the first time, there's no loathing in his eyes. Appraisal, perhaps, but mostly neutrality. John sits for a moment longer and then joins us. He rubs a hand down his face and sighs quietly. Without another word, Holmes and Watson exit my room. I fall into my chair, even more ready for the day to be over. Now I'm also eager to  understand what happened between John and Sherlock that led to so much hurt for both of them. I have a sinking feeling that I'm nowhere near qualified enough to handle it.


	3. The Tragedy is How You're Gonna Spend the Rest of Your Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's first one-on-one therapy session with Ms Gatiss.

            If you asked John why we’ve been fighting so much, he would most likely tell you that I’ve been a ‘piss-poor excuse of a flatmate’ recently. That’s what he told Lestrade when we threw staplers at each other across Scotland Yard; what he told Mrs Hudson when I locked him out of the bathroom; what he told Molly when he spent all afternoon ruining my experiments. The truth is, however, that I haven’t changed a bit – he’s the one who’s different. John used to be the quintessential soldier: level head, stoic expression, always thought before he acted. But now he’s volatile, ready to lunge for my throat if I do so much as blink. Mycroft says it’s due to repressed emotions, but my theory is simpler: John Watson has gone insane.

 

            John’s insanity is obvious during our return home from therapy. We take a cab, even though he won’t look at me. The only movement that comes from him the entire ride to our flat is the smallest of shivers and when he would clench his fists. He’s clearly still distressed, but I don’t see how that was my fault either. It actually did scare me, when he said he would leave. I’d assumed he would live with me indefinitely. The idea of him suddenly abandoning me was disconcerting, like I had woken up smelling smoke, only to find my room in flames.

 

            He manages to ignore me for the entire journey, and all the way to our front door. The only reason his silence ends is to tell me, “I don’t have my key.” It was spoken in a cold, robotic voice. I almost miss his psychotic rage; the way he’s treated me since we left the therapist’s office is resolved and hopeless. _He’s going to move out_ , I warn myself. _Anyone else would have by now, and John Watson is no different._ I walk into the kitchen so that I don’t have to watch him pack his bags. Time seems to be even slower than usual, and I am rapidly reaching the point of absolute boredom that typically results in gunfire. After what feels like years, I step to the doorway and peer into the living room. John’s slumped on the couch, shuddering and making the most horrendous sound. I swallow the words that threaten to erupt – _John, it’s okay, I know there’s something wrong, but I’m here –_ refusing to become so weak. After shaking my head, I glance into the room. There are no bags to be seen, so he’s staying for at least tonight. Small relief, but it’s enough for me to be able to sleep.

 

***               ***               ***               ***               ***               ***

 

            I used to consider boredom my least favourite way to spend an afternoon, but now I’ve encountered something far worse: therapy. Why someone would pay ridiculous sums just for a moronic hack to waste an hour with meaningless chatter is completely beyond me. Yet here I am, in a much-too-small room with a very annoying woman. I had tried convincing Mycroft that a professional intervention is hardly necessary (at least not on my part), but he wouldn’t listen. After hours of arguing, he gave an ultimatum: either suffer through therapy, or he would make it so that I couldn’t solve crimes in London. At all. I highly doubt that he would actually enforce this, but I know better than to disregard Mycroft entirely.

 

            The therapist – Ms Gatiss, I believe – is visibly uncomfortable. She’s bitter from the time I broke her table, perhaps, but that was weeks ago. Her clothes are wrinkled and there’s a cup of tea on her desk, still half-filled and fairly old. All in all, I see nothing out of the ordinary for this woman: single, mid-thirties, stressed, and somewhat eager. Judging by the frantic notes that adorn my case file, the eagerness is related to whatever ‘problems’ she believes are present between John and me.  She grabs the file and a pen, and then peers at me intently.

 

            “Shall we begin, then, Mr Holmes?”

 

            “I suppose.” I adjust my scarf and just barely roll my eyes. _Professional, sure. Anyone with functioning brain cells could have her career._ It’s been three minutes since I entered the room and I see no reason to continue being here. Unfortunately, it’s hardly my decision.

 

            “How have you been?”

 

            “Much the same as ever. I’m fine.”

 

            My answers don’t please her, not that I particularly care. She huffs a little, then jots a note on the crowded papers and prepares her next question.

 

            “Has John left yet?” Ms Gatiss knows that John is the weak link in my armour; I’m certain that if we’d been on friendlier terms she would have phrased it more delicately, but instead her question is all barbs and sharp corners, intended to break me apart. The venom in her question is carefully hidden beneath a concerned veneer, and I know much better than to let her anywhere close to the truth. He hasn’t moved out, but he’s not quite at home either. I can tell that I’m losing him, and not just as a flatmate.

 

            Rather than allowing her access to my thoughts, I offer a bland reply: “Not yet.” I cast out a small, almost-mocking smile, with the full intention of making her think that there’s something I won’t tell her. When forced to consort with fools, I really do find pleasure in letting them know how foolish they are.

 

            She doesn’t take the bait – her only response is a slightly raised eyebrow as she murmurs, “Sherlock, I’m not here with the sole intention of wasting your time. You’re supposedly a genius, correct? It seems to me that that’s just hype. You couldn’t deduce a crossword puzzle. You’re nothing more than a spoiled child, breaking others’ toys for attention.”

 

            I lean back, amused. “Ms … Gatiss, is it? Pardon me, but you’re hardly one to talk about ‘hype’. I was under the impression that you were professional, but the way you interact with me hardly suggests that.” If John were here, he’d reprimand my behaviour; but, as I’ve been left to my own devices, I plan to make the most of it. Especially since this woman shows no signs of backing down. On the contrary, her eyes gleam as she retaliates: “I see why John is sick of putting up with you. It’s a wonder he would bother with you at all – you’re not worth the abuse you put him through.”

 

            The blatant cruelty in her words is designed to make my defenses crumble. It almost works, to be quite honest. I almost break down in front of this woman. I almost tell her the truth: that just imagining a life without John Watson is too painful for me to bear. That if he were to ever actually leave, I would do anything in my power to follow him. That, if I were able, I would go back to before the battle raged, simply to soothe him. My hubris is the only thing that has kept me in the war; it’s also the one trait I possess that’s powerful enough to keep me from apologising to John. I’d like nothing more than to make the entire problem disappear, but it’s hard to do so without admitting that I _am_ the problem.

 

            Ms Gatiss watches my face while I’m mired in thought, pleased with whatever she sees. She leans forward, armed with a final blow. “I’m going to keep pushing until you crack, Sherlock. It’s why your brother hired me, and there’s nothing you can do but accept this. I’m going to win this game, because the only piece you have left on the board is your pride. And if you think that your empty ego is worth the hours you’ll waste refusing to talk to me, ask yourself if it’s also worth losing your only friend - because that’s how this ends, Mr Holmes. Even if you win, you’re going to lose.”

 

            I’m rendered speechless. Mycroft does nothing halfway, apparently: even the therapists that he hires are nothing more than conmen.

 

            “This is pointless,” I spit out as I stand to leave. “You know nothing about me.” There are other phrases that come to mind, but I have something of an image to maintain (one that does not include juvenility, in my opinion). There’s only one more thing I have to say to this woman as I make my exit: “If you manipulate John so that he does move out, I will make your life so much more miserable than it already is. Yes, that’s actually possible, so I suggest you abandon any notion that you can win. Sherlock Holmes never loses a game.”

 

The words are empty, but I don’t give Ms Gatiss a chance to do anything but accept them as fact. Before she can respond, I’m out the door and onto the street, with my collar turned up in the vain hope that it will return me to a time where no one knew or cared about anything that happened inside of my mind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know that in real life, a therapist is highly unlikely to be so ... rude. But she's being intentionally unprofessional, because she knows the normal approach would never work with Sherlock.


	4. A Strange Enough New Play on Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has his first one-on-one session with Ms Gatiss. There's also a confrontation with Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to keep this upbeat. Please leave feedback, guys. I hate to beg, but I have no idea what I'm doing right/wrong. Sidebar: I absolutely loathe writing Mycroft.

            I look up from my novel - a short, saccharine romantic piece that Molly told me I ‘absolutely had to read’ – just in time to see Sherlock storm out of the office. Ms Gatiss must have some sort of magic, because she knows exactly what strings to pull to make Sherlock so pissed off. He struts right past me, too encompassed in his own anger to notice that I’m here. If I were in the mood to punch someone, I’d call out to him; instead, I let him go, and wait for my turn. It’s bloody impossible to focus on this book (even without acknowledging the fact that I’ve just read twenty euphemisms for ‘penis’ in the last page and a half) so I shove it into my pocket and stare at the ancient clock that adorns the wall. _Tick tock_ , I think. _Simple things, calm things, let’s-not-focus-on-our-anger things._ I read somewhere online that these were the topics one should think about when trying to remain calm; I’m pretty sure they meant something more than the general concept, but I’m far too upset to find actual examples.

 

            Leave it to Sherlock to be the one who waxes dramatic: not just at home and in sessions, but everywhere. I don’t know how to deal with him anymore, and I have no clue where this even began. One day we were best friends, the kind where you feel almost like a combined person instead of two autonomous beings, where you know the other’s thoughts and feelings by instinct alone. That sort of friendship that not everyone gets, and once you find it, you realise just how dull life had been before. Your life transforms from a black-and-white film into technicolour, with hues no one has ever seen before. There’s a divide in your existence – ‘before this’ and ‘after this’. Most people, once they’ve found a connection like ours, they lose it. I don’t want to lose it. So I do my best with Ms Gatiss, do my best in therapy, try my hardest to fix anything I caused, all in the somewhat vain hope that Sherlock and I haven’t already gone too far.

 

            Ms Gatiss leads me to her room and motions for me to sit on the couch. I take a seat and decide that I’m done playing games.  I’ve had an awful amount of war in my life, but arguments with Sherlock almost make me miss fucking Afghanistan – at least I knew who the enemy was there, and how I was supposed to feel about them. This one … I have no words for whatever I feel about him. He’s an enigma, and the complete shroud of his existence makes anything relating to him a bit foggier than it ought to be. There’s only so much time before a divide cracks up between us, and I for one will not take that sitting down. My throat constricts with tension and I swallow hard, pushing past any fear that, even as I speak, it’s too late to patch up the wounded, and all we could do is count casualties and go our separate ways.

 

            “Ms Gatiss, I’m ... I’m ready to fix this. I don’t want to fight with him anymore.” I hold my head up, daring her to tell me that the problems won’t go away just because I’d like them to.

 

            The determination I’ve carried into today’s session permeates the air. It creates a mood that’s different from the other times we’ve met: I’m no longer accepting that there’s no hope of recovery. Ms Gatiss pauses with her mouth open, presumably to switch tracks. No doubt she’d been ready to convince me that this wasn’t a healthy situation, and that I need to think of myself first. Something completely shallow and typical of therapy.

 

            After a moment, she decides on a course to follow and shoots out, “What changed your mind? Last time we met, you were prepared to be rid of him. You were absolutely done, ready to start a new, healthier life.”

 

            “Well, now I’m not.” I cross my arms, obstinate in the face of an authority who thinks they know me better than I possibly could. Seems that there are things Sherlock and I have in common, after all.

 

            “John, you must realise that your well-being is more important than the friendship that you used to share with Sherlock Holmes. Maybe you two had some wonderful moments, but it’s been a long time since then, and as a professional, I really don’t think that it’s good for you to stay with him. There’s too much distance between the two of you for you to patch it up on your own, and he doesn’t seem willing to cooperate.” She leans forward, setting a trap that she fully expects me to fall in. I’m not the same wounded man who was in the last session, though. I don’t see how running away would solve anything, not when I’m so close to the prize.

 

            Until this very moment, I hadn’t even known that there was a prize at all.

 

            “There is _not_ too much distance between Sherlock and I, and there never will be. There are just misunderstandings and things that we … we don’t talk about …” I’d prepared an entire rant in my head, but I drop it as I stand. “We’re going to have to stop here. I need to go.” She opens her mouth to get the final word in, but I’m already out the door with my mobile in my hand, punching in the numbers frantically and praying that I can get some amount of luck now. The call seems to take forever, until finally it’s picked up.

 

            “Hello, Mycroft?” I’m pushing the words out, there’s only so much time until it’s too late. I don’t know if there’s actually any kind of deadline here, but I’d rather treat it like there is. There are a few things I don’t understand, that I really need to know. “Meet me at Angelo’s café. It’s urgent.” The line stays live just long enough for me to hear his grumbled assent, and then I close my phone and run to catch a cab.

 

***                        ***                        ***                       ***                       ***

          Naturally, once I’ve finally made my way to the café, Mycroft is already standing at the entryway. He taps his umbrella impatiently. “Great,” I mutter. “He’s already annoyed.” This might have deterred others, but there is absolutely nothing – barring divine interference – that could make me give up. My epiphany, if that’s the proper word for it, had forced a rush of adrenaline and courage through my veins. Though he agitates me a lot of the time (among a long list of other grievances), Sherlock Holmes has changed something within me, and I have to find out what. Not that Mycroft is an expert on this sort of thing, but he’s the only other person I can think of who might know Sherlock almost as well as I do.

 

            Mycroft sees me running haphazardly towards him and appears taken aback for a brief moment, as if my panicked need to see him is completely unexpected. Which, to be fair, it really is. He regains his composure and calls out, “John? We’re at a café, not in a sprint.” With a raised eyebrow, he enters the building and sits at the table closest to the front window. I calm to a brisk walk and catch my breath as I go to join him. He smirks a bit and reaches for a menu, perusing the foods in lieu of conversation.

 

            “So, John, I assume you didn’t invite me here for the sole purpose of undermining my diet?” Mycroft closes the menu and signals for a waiter to take his order. I huff a bit from both irritation and a lack of oxygen.

 

            “No, I didn’t. Actually, I’ve got something to ask you.” I swallow my nerves and then push through: “What do you think caused the huge row between Sherlock and me?”

 

            A short chuckle slips out of Mycroft’s mouth. “I believe it’s quite obvious.” He turns away to accept a slice of chocolate cake and two cups of tea from the waiter. One cup is placed in front of me as he absorbs what my blank stare implies. “You don’t see it, do you, John?”

 

            I shake my head. There’s nothing to see, not when I’m mired in confusing thoughts and feelings. Not when I can barely understand myself, let alone Sherlock Holmes – a man that has managed to go through his entire life having _never_ been understood.

 

            My confusion elicits a full laugh from the man across from me, as he proclaims, “No wonder you two don’t get along! Really, I can’t make it any clearer than it already is. You two are…” Mycroft raises both eyebrows, reminding me a lot of Jim Moriarty when he thought he had beat Sherlock. He leans back and rolls his eyes at my confusion. “There’s, let’s say … unresolved feelings. Everyone can see it, John.” With that, he turns his attention towards the cake and allows me a moment to realise exactly what he’s implying.

 

            Even though his suggestion is now painfully clear to me, I feel the need to be sure. “You mean. You think that we … fancy each other or something?” Hearing the words in my own voice feels more like a confession than not, and I find myself wondering if it could be true. I press my fingers to my temples in an attempt to calm the frantic sea that my thoughts have become. Though it had crossed my mind before, I’d never allowed myself to think of Sherlock in any way besides friendship, but even that words pales in comparison to the way we interact. “No. There’s no way.” I give a quiet dissent, trying to change reality so that it would be simpler to comprehend.

 

            The older Holmes is pleased at having finally gotten through to me. “I’m afraid so, John.” Though it’s not how he typically behaves, Mycroft leans closer to add one more thing. “If it helps, I’m fairly certain that it’s reciprocated. At least, as much as it can be for him.”  A few more sentences float towards me as I turn to exit the café, needing some time to figure out, well, everything. The entire world been changed in a moment, and all I hear before delving into my mind is Mycroft calling out, “Don’t take my word as gospel, John. You know my brother much better than I do, and this is simply what I see happening. All the same, good luck.” 


	5. This Is a Dangerous Liaison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has time to think, which is definitely not the best thing at the moment.

             _Bang. Bang. Bang._ Three more bullets crack the wall. I roll my eyes and sigh, too crushed by boredom to even reload the gun. Instead I toss it across the room and flop onto the sofa. John was supposed to be finished at therapy over two hours ago – even if traffic was horrendous, he would have been home by now. I can’t shake the fear that he’s gone somewhere else permanently, without a single word of warning so that I could prepare for everything I’ve come to know as my life to spontaneously combust. It would, if he left. His absence would be similar to what mourning must feel like, not that I would know. I do quite well at distancing myself from such distracting things as emotions: though everyone describes me as dramatic, I’m a relatively level-headed man.

 

            I haven’t appeared very stable as of late, at least not to myself. Especially right now, when it’s all I can do to not call Lestrade and make sure that John hasn’t been found dead. Panic threatens to attack me as I picture his body, broken and thrown in an alley by a faceless criminal … floating in the Thames … or worse yet, hanged from a rafter by his own design. The thought of him being dead at all is enough to drive me mad, but to think that he could have done it to himself is the absolute worst torture I’ve inflicted on myself. I try to calm myself by pointing out, _he’s hardly the kind of man who’d take his own life_. But it’s been so long since I felt that I actually knew John Watson. He used to be so dependable, so endearingly obvious, so scheduled and typical. There was nothing he could do that would surprise me. Until he did, that is.

 

            Things had really begun to fall apart in 221B when I walked in to the living room one night to see John with a woman. Mary, he called her. He said that he hadn’t expected me to be home that night, because I’d been so enthralled with the latest corpse in the morgue. Shame burned in my throat, but I didn’t know why. John had slept with women before, and it was perfectly fine. So it baffled me why this time I felt almost betrayed. I berated myself that night, thinking, _John’s not my property. He’s nothing more than a flatmate, and sometimes a friend. He’s the one who said we’re only colleagues. That’s what he wants._ It hurt then, and I hate it, but it still aches now.

That’s when we began to fall apart, I suppose. The seams that had sewn us into a hybrid were cut slowly, so we broke down into our separate bodies. And I found that being my own person wasn’t everything I thought it could be. It’s what John wanted, though – I assumed that once our ties were broken, he’d be happier. He wasn’t. Our arguments began to multiply and grow in ferocity as our bond dissolved. Screaming matches worsened until he was on the verge of spiteful tears while I was ready to shut down altogether. Silence filled in the tense hours between fights. The quiet was harder for me to accept than the anger, because it was just more proof that I had hurt John. Thinking over these past few months, I begin to wonder if it wouldn’t be best for him to be gone altogether, somewhere where I couldn’t ruin him. If I were less selfish, maybe I’d actually consider allowing that to happen.

 

Little lies built up around us as the distance grew between us: every time we’d say nothing was wrong when friends became concerned and every time we’d act like this battle wasn’t tearing us apart. This line of thinking is getting out of hand, so I sit up and look around for my mobile. If I didn’t find out where John was – and more importantly, that he’s safe – I’d be trapped in my own mind for hours, maybe even days. I dial the number for Lestrade’s division at Scotland Yard, and tap my fingers anxiously on my thigh as I wait for him to take the call.

            After what feels like centuries, Lestrade answers abruptly. “Sherlock? What is it?” His voice has the gruff quality of someone who had just been asleep.

 

            “Were you sleeping? That’s not what you’re supposed to be doing.” I’m briefly amused by his sleeping on the job. Lestrade huffs and mutters, “I wasn’t sleeping. What do you want, then? I’m busy.”

 

            “Have you heard anything from John? I expected him to be home by now, but it’s been hours and I’ve got no idea where he’s gone.” All of my willpower is aimed at not letting my fears colour my tone.

 

            The line is filled with static for a minute; Lestrade’s put his hand over the mouthpiece so that I can’t spy on his conversation. Apparently he realised that I do that. Most of the dialogue is blocked, but I can hear a voice that’s eerily similar to my brother’s. In fact, it _is_ my brother’s. Before I have the opportunity to deduce why Mycroft would be at Scotland Yard, Lestrade uncovers the mouthpiece and speaks.

 

            “Yes. Uh, apparently he had to stop for a chat. He should be along soon enough. No bodies matching his description have been found, at the very least. Unless he’s an 80-year-old woman, that is.” The last bit is a pathetic attempt at humour. I’m definitely not laughing.

 

            “Lestrade. Where could he have possibly …” I trail off and tilt my head, listening to the stairwell. The familiar footsteps are coming closer and closer – John’s finally home. Without another word, I close out the phone call and turn to the door. No sounds come from the other side, so John must be standing there. I wonder if he’s gathering the courage to face me, like I’ve done every day since I saw him with Mary. I wonder if he’s going to leave. The doorknob turns and the door opens at a ridiculously slow pace. Finally, he steps in and gingerly pushes the door closed behind him. I try to meet his eyes, but John’s averted his gaze to the floor.

 

            “John?”

 

            His eyes finally rise to meet mine. They’re filled with a curious sort of intensity, as if he’s built up all of this emotion and can’t release any of it. John swallows nervously and rubs his thumb across his forehead. I want to say something, but I lack words powerful enough to express it. Luckily, he breaks the silence before I’m forced to speak.

 

            “Sherlock. We need to talk.”

 


	6. If You've Got the Poison, I've Got the Remedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John doesn't know what to do.

            My mind goes blank as soon as I tell Sherlock that we ‘need to talk’. It’s such a cliché phrase, but there’s precious little else for me to say. Part of me wants to cut and run – get away from these feelings, this confusion, and the wonderful/insane/childish/utterly indescribable man who causes me to endure such conflicting things. The other part (an embarrassingly small part) cautions me that leaving now could be the worst thing I’ll do in my entire life. If I left now, I’d have my pride, but nothing else. If I stay … I don’t know that I’ll have anything at all. Despite that, I already know that I’m never leaving Sherlock, not as long as I have the option to stay.

 

            Sherlock’s sitting on the sofa, relief in the way he almost smiles and the tension that slides out of his shoulders. He stands up and goes to the kitchen, busying his hands with the kettle and two mugs. It’s uncharacteristically domestic of him in the best of situations, and right now I’m struck by the premonition that this conversation isn’t going to go well. I cross my arms and stand at the threshold, a bit irritated.

 

            “Sherlock, did you hear me?”

 

            He doesn’t even glance at me. “Yes.”

 

            This definitely won’t be an enjoyable experience. I clear my throat and sigh, “Do you mind if I go ahead and continue, then?”

 

            “Go on.” Sherlock still refuses to look at me, instead choosing to thrust his head into the cupboard, in search of mugs or perhaps an escape hatch. Now that I’ve committed myself to it, I absolutely refuse to have this discussion until I have nothing less than his full attention.

 

            “Would you please stop making tea for a sodding minute? This is important.” The words come out harsher than I intended. “At least, it is to me.”

 

            Reluctantly, Sherlock extracts himself from the cupboard and turns to face me, his eyes still fighting to avoid mine. He mutters a quick apology, motioning for me to continue. Suddenly I’m filled with fear that this is going to destroy everything we’ve built: days of tension, hours of laughter, all of the trust and caring we (or at least, I) poured into the cement as each brick was placed. Through all of the hard bits, Sherlock and I had managed to construct an entire wall between us. One of friendship, yes, but it still forced us to keep everything visceral on our own sides. I’ve finally gotten the chance to tear it down, and there’s no way I could let it go.

 

 As frightening as the idea of being honest with Sherlock Holmes is to me, I know it’s unavoidable. So I straighten my back – army posture helps the nerves, I tell myself – and speak.

 

“I meant what I said in therapy. I’m done, Sherlock. This whole thing, it’s just a ruse; it’s not real to me anymore.”

 

His face falls. I’m just getting started.

 

“What I mean is, you’re not just a friend or a flatmate, not anymore. This is going to sound corny, and I sure as hell didn’t come up with it myself, but I read once that every person has a soul mate, someone who they just _understand_. Someone who just accepts them, and all of the smaller details just fall into place. That’s who you are for me, Sherlock. I don’t have to change myself or lie to you. You never even asked me to be anything but what I am. And I can’t bear to lose that.

 “I love you, Sherlock Holmes. In spite of the bodies everywhere, the constant violin playing, and the moodiness – you’re the reason I’m still here. I was so boring before we met. You changed me, do you realise that? I don’t know if it’s for better or worse, but I know it’s permanent. Not that I’d change a bloody thing. If I could go back and do everything over, I’d still choose you over anything else on this planet. 

“This war is over because I surrender completely. I’m not going to fight you anymore, because I would rather have no pride than have a life without you in it.”

 

I run out of both breath and words. The silence that follows my soliloquy is crushing us and makes me ashamed to have spoken at all. _He’s going to be done with you now, John._ I don’t want to think it, but the notion plants itself in my mind and refuses to budge. _You’re not enough for him. You shouldn’t have done this; it’s all ruined now._

 

Sherlock raises his eyes from the floor slowly, landing on my face. He stares for a moment, a blank expression masking his thoughts. Then he abruptly turns to the kettle, which had apparently been whistling for a good portion of my speech. I sink into the closest chair. Of course I’d known Sherlock’s response wouldn’t be something from some god-awful romantic comedy, but I’d expected, at the very least, _some_ sort of response. My head slams into the table as every bit of energy immediately disappears from my body. Without even knowing it, part of me had held onto the insane hope that Sherlock would feel something, anything. As if he cared for anything except the next distraction. Maybe that’s all I had been – a distraction from the tedium that would fill an empty flat. I was just a replacement for the skull.

 

A cup is placed in front of me with a loud thump. I aim all of my focus at the tea so that I’m not tempted to look up at Sherlock. It’s made exactly as I like it. It takes every bit of my willpower to only look at the mug, not at the man who’s taken his regular seat opposite of me. His eyes are boring holes into my brain. Centuries later, my cup is empty but I’m still staring into it.

 

I’d broken down the wall. Thrown a stick of dynamite and hoped something worthwhile would emerge from the smoke. Everything on Sherlock’s side had been a mystery, but it turns out there had been nothing: just a blank expanse where mine was filled with curiosity. I can’t take this. An escape plan begins forming in my head, so I stand to leave. Just as I turn, Sherlock materialises in front of me and puts his hand on my shoulder. His face is contorted with confusion and pain, and I know that whatever comes next is going to change my entire existence.

 

“John, I know you think of me as a heartless, emotionless robot. But I do have a heart … and it beats for you.” The words push themselves out of his throat, coloured with feelings that I’d never even thought Sherlock was capable of experiencing.

 

My mouth falls open in shock. It takes me a good few minutes to remember how to speak. “Sherlock…?” His eyes finally meet mine, blinding me with sheer conviction. The space between us suddenly feels like kilometers, but the entire distance crackles with electricity.  I lose all of the fear that once restrained me and I close the distance, pulling Sherlock against me as our lips touch for the very first time.

 

People say you’ll feel fireworks when it’s right, but that doesn’t even come close to this. Kissing Sherlock Holmes was like a bomb set off inside my head.  I was falling from heaven and escaping from hell at the same time. I was stripped bare of every defense and it didn’t matter. Time stopped and I could see galaxies being created; it sped up and I watched stars atrophy into supernovas.

 

            When I finally pull away, I know nothing will ever be the same. Everything I’d known about had gone up in flames; but where I’d first seen only a destroyed wasteland there was now something beautiful. A nervous giggle escapes me and Sherlock looks down with uncertain curiosity.

 

            “Are you laughing at me, John?” His eyes narrow as he attempts to deduce my thoughts.

 

            “No, no, it wasn’t about you, I swear.” My giggle turns into full-out laughter. I’m consumed by happiness and every other emotion all at once. Nothing could touch me now.

 

            Sherlock eyes me, perplexed. “Then what is it?”

 

            “I’m just _happy_ , Sherlock. Except … There is one thing. Just a little thing.”

 

            He smiles. “Go on, then.”

 

            “Could you take the corpse out of my bathtub now?”

 

            My hysteria catches onto Sherlock and laughter erupts from him as well. It’s such a welcome relief, the best solution to our battle. Eventually it subsides into grins, and he replies, “It’s an experiment, though!” I roll my eyes and kiss him once more, quickly and gently, just to prove to myself that this is real.

 

            It was real. It still is.

 

***                  ***                  ***                  ***                  ***                  ***                  ***

 

            So there it is, the resolution to our war. When we called Ms Gatiss to tell her that our problems were no more, she was happy. Surprised, but happy. When we told Mycroft, he only said, “I told you so,” and passed the news along to Greg. Everyone’s pretty excited for us to be together, but I think they’re mostly relieved that they’re no longer caught in the crossfire.

 

            I’m happy too – fighting with Sherlock had been the most painful ordeal of my life. He says that it wasn’t nearly as bad as having to deal with ‘ordinary people’ every day, but he’s only kidding. Mostly. We still argue, but nothing ever gets that bad anymore. Everything’s peaceful in 221B Baker Street, except when he’s in a mood. I’m not stupid enough to believe that he’d never get bored again, after all. I just have more ways to entertain him now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's the final chapter. It took a lot of emotion, music, and tea, but I finished. Please leave feedback in the comment section below. Thank you so much for joining me on this brief - yet, I hope, wonderful - experience.


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